


Pennies From Heaven (Pound Notes From Hell)

by Ineffabilitea



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Community: go_exchange, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-06
Updated: 2007-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:13:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ineffabilitea/pseuds/Ineffabilitea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warlock just wants to feel special again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pennies From Heaven (Pound Notes From Hell)

**Author's Note:**

> My go_exchange 2006 fic, written for vibishan. Thanks to such_heights for the beta!

Like most children, even those whose fathers don't have their own Secret Service details, Warlock could be stunningly self-centered. Thus, it is no real surprise that he found nothing unusual about the fact that total strangers gave him birthday presents. His birthday was a very important day, after all.

Being simply a normal boy (as it turned out), Warlock of course couldn't remember his earliest birthdays. But, as his mother could have told him, even then strangers seemed unusually predisposed towards generosity.

On Warlock's first birthday, a gentleman with sandy blond hair chatted with Mrs. Dowling for several minutes in the children's clothing shop she frequented, then insisted upon buying a pair of plaid overalls with a duck on the bib for the birthday boy.1  Later, on her way out of Marks &amp; Spencer, a young man in a good suit gave her several packages of expensive disposable diapers2  that he claimed he didn't need.

On Warlock's second birthday, a man in a pair of designer sunglasses bought him a helium balloon as Harriet pushed his stroller through the park. Though she remembered tying it to Warlock's wrist quite tightly, the next time she turned around, it was floating up and away.3  That afternoon, a man who claimed he was from a literacy society left her several free educational children's books, suitable for reading aloud.4 

On Warlock's third birthday, Harriet found herself stuck in a line at the pharmacy, with the (grumpy) birthday boy in tow. (It was Nanny's day off.) Fortunately, a kind young man in black kept him entertained with some sort of antique toy car, shiny and black, he produced as if by magic. He was even generous enough to give it up to Warlock when he screamed "MINE! MINE!" as Harriet tried to drag him away to their next errand.5  There was another line at the bank, but a nice bank employee calmed Warlock by switching on some soothing classical – Beethoven, he said – in the lobby.6  On her way out, he produced the cassette and insisted she take it, as classical music was supposed to be good for developing minds.

The first birthday Warlock could remember was his fourth. It had rained, and that morning Nanny Ashtoreth took him on a walk through the park by their house, so he could step on all the earthworms stranded on the sidewalk. That was fun because they were so squishy, but his mom always got upset at the mess all over his shoes.

Once they were in the park, Nanny made him sit on a wet park bench and told him they were waiting for someone important. Warlock knew all about meeting important people, because his dad knew lots of them, but when the man finally arrived (and Warlock was thoroughly wet and chilled) he wasn't what Warlock had expected at all. He was dressed up like his dad's friends, sure, but he was wearing sunglasses, for one thing, and he didn't kneel down and ruffle Warlock's hair and call him 'little man' like Warlock thought he would.

"Er, hello," he said instead, not looking Nanny in the eye and carefully shying away from Rover. "I'm not late, am I? Busy with … things, you know."

"You are not late," Nanny replied stonily. Rover just growled. "I have brought the boy."

"So I see," he replied, eyes passing over Warlock but never really focusing on him properly. "Everything all right?"

"Warlock's progress is satisfactory. He stepped on two dozen worms on our walk over." Nanny Ashtoreth smiled proudly, as though Warlock had just learnt to tie his shoes.

"Good. Er. Bad. Um. Satisfactory, yes."

"Say hello, Warlock." Nanny nudged him.

"Hewwo," Warlock dutifully echoed.

"It's your birthday." It wasn't a question. "Did you get any presents?"

"A twicycle," Warlock replied. "It's wed."

"Oh." The man smiled nervously at Warlock. "Does it have a horn?"

"No." Warlock pouted. That sounded like fun.

"It's not a proper tricycle without a horn, is it?" the man asked. "How else will people know to get out of your way?"

"Mr. Fwancis says I should let others' needs come before mine and never inconvenience them."

Rover growled. So did Nanny. The man just smiled nervously again.

"Mr. Francis? The gardener? Do you spend much time with him?"

"Yes. He wets me pwant seeds wit' him."

"Good, good."

Rover looked like he was about to go for the man's throat. So did Nanny.

"Er, that is, you should listen to your nanny, not that man."

"Oh."

The man shifted uncomfortably. "Well, kid, I should go. Here-" he handed Warlock a small package – "Happy birthday."

It was a horn. Warlock honked it and it made a delightfully loud noise. "Fanks," he said to the man's rapidly retreating figure.

"Warlock!" Nanny scolded. "What have I told you about manners? We don't say 'thank you,' we accept what others give us as our due tribute."

"Sowwy, Nanny."

Nanny sighed. "And we don't apologise, either."

~*~

The afternoon found Warlock accompanying Mr. Francis on a walk through London, to his surprise, since he'd never seen the gardener show any interest in leaving the confines of his garden before.

"Mr. Fwancis, my feet hurt," he whined. They had been walking _forever_, it seemed.

"Suffering builds character, Warlock. And do not forget that the suffering of others is much greater than your own," was the patient reply.

"But where are we going?"

"To visit a friend."

The friend turned out to have a bookshop in a part of London Warlock was sure his mother would never, ever let him visit but which seemed to faze Mr. Francis not at all. The bookshop wasn't as interesting as the rest of the neighborhood, being dusty and rather shabby, as was its proprietor. When Warlock and Mr. Francis entered, he grinned at them rather too cheerily.

"Why hello there! So glad you could make it, Francis. And here's the birthday boy!" This man did kneel down to ruffle Warlock's hair. "How are you today?"

"Tired."

"Tired? Why ever- Francis, did you _walk_ here?"

"Of course we walked."

"It's over a mile! Poor Warlock must be exhausted. I can't think why you didn't hail a cab," the man fussed.

"The Good Lord gave us feet, didn't he?" Mr. Francis replied.

The man flinched. "Er, yes, I suppose he did." There was an awkward pause, and Warlock shifted from foot to sore foot. The movement drew the man's attention. "Oh, yes, let's get you into the back room and you can have a sit-down and some nice warm cocoa, how does that sound?"

And before Warlock could say anything at all, he found himself whisked into an even shabbier room at the back of the shop, pressed into an armchair which had seen better days, and presented with a plaid wool blanket ("It's chilly outside, as well, Francis, really.") and a steaming mug of cocoa.

"There you are, dear." The man smiled at him encouragingly. Warlock took a tentative sip of the cocoa. Not bad, though it wasn't as sweet as the cocoa at home. "Cocoa for you, Francis?"

"Just water, please." Mr. Francis coughed. "Now what do we say, Warlock?"

Oh. "Fank you," he obediently replied.

"Oh, you're very welcome. Such lovely manners he has, Francis. I trust things have been going well?"

"Yes indeed. Warlock here feeds the birds with me every day and he's a big help in the garden, too."

"Is that so?" The man turned to smile again at Warlock. "What's your favorite part of gardening, then?"

"Mud!" Warlock unhesitatingly replied.

"Oh dear. I hope you don't track it all over the house and make a mess. Your parents wouldn't like that at all."

"Nanny Ashtowef says other people's feewings don't matter."

The man arched an eyebrow. "Does she, now? Do you like your nanny?"

"She wets me do all kinds of fings my fwiends aren't allowed to. But Wover is scawy."

"Cursed beast," Mr. Francis muttered under his breath.

"Now Francis, I thought you had a way with animals?" the man asked. "It can't be worse than a wolf, after all."

"Or it could be a _hellhound_," Mr. Francis whispered.

The man blinked. "Oh. Well, that would be different. So," he continued, turning to face Warlock, "how's your cocoa, dear?"

"It's nice," Warlock replied.

"It's imported, you know," the man continued. "Belgian. Seventy percent cacao."

"That must be expensive," Mr. Francis noted.

The man looked a bit shamefaced at that. "Just a little, er, indulgence I allow myself, you know."

"I'm sure," Mr. Francis replied, eyeing the man's slight paunch and chubby cheeks.

"Well, Warlock," the man abruptly changed the subject, "as it's your birthday, and I know you like helping Mr. Francis in the garden so much, here's a little present for you."

The package he handed Warlock turned out to contain a child's gardening set, with a little shovel and rake and a small watering can as well. Warlock smiled. With his own watering can and shovel, he could make lots of mud.

***

After that one memorable year, Warlock rarely saw the men for longer than a moment or two. They settled into a routine: the cheerful bookshop owner always gave him a dull book, with a savings bond tucked inside; the dark, nervous man just gave him cash – usually a fifty pound note. They'd bump into him at a park or on the street – he never got to visit the bookshop again.

Then, for his eleventh birthday, they came to his party.

At first, Warlock thought this meant his party would be interesting, but the bookshop owner was pretending he was a magician and he wasn't any good at it, and the other one was pretending he was a waiter or something but he really didn't look like one. And they hadn't brought him any presents: no book, no cash. Not even the boring savings bond. Warlock was about to rule this the lamest birthday ever when Mr. Francis's friend finally did a real magic trick and his party got exciting after all.

***

Two days before Warlock's twelfth birthday, he was sulking in an ice cream parlor in Washington, D.C., while his mother had her hair done in the salon next door. Lately, everywhere Warlock went there was an ice cream parlor next door.

At least the ice cream was a _good_ new thing about his life, unlike everything else. He had to go to school now instead of having his own tutors and the kids there all made fun of his name. His dad was always busy and upset all the time now as he tried to figure out why he had been recalled from his job and get a new one. His mom missed England even more than he did; she fought with dad a lot these days about going back. And she was constantly fussing at Warlock about all the weight he'd gained from the ice cream. Other than that, nobody seemed to notice him much anymore.

That was what he missed the most. Nobody here seemed to think he was very important. And now his birthday was coming up and he probably wouldn't even get anything interesting.

Then it hit him. He wasn't going get anything _uninteresting_, either. The two strangers and their predictable gifts were back in England, as well. Yet another special thing about his life, like his tutors and Nanny and Mr. Francis, that he didn't have here in stupid America.

Warlock was just settling down to a second hot fudge sundae and more sulking when the shop bell rang. British-accented voices reached Warlock's ears, and he looked up from the sundae in curiosity. _It was them!_ A little thrill of happiness ran through Warlock. At least somebody thought he was still worth bothering with.

They didn't seem to have noticed Warlock yet, though. The two were bickering.

"All I'm saying is, why are we even here?" said the one in the sunglasses.

"I hear the triple chocolate chip is delicious," his companion noted.

"It's always sweets with you, isn't it? And you know full well that's not what I meant. Why are we in America, Aziraphale?"

"It's the boy's birthday."

They were here for him! He knew it.

"So what?" The dark-haired one's casual tone hurt.

"Honestly, Crowley. I seem to remember _someone_ saying we'd be his godfathers."

Godfathers? Didn't your parents usually pick those out? His parents had never mentioned the men. Plus, they weren't even religious, really. He thought you were supposed to get a godmother, too, but with these two, it seemed unlikely.

The one called Crowley snorted. "That was before." He made a vague gesture which was apparently meant to represent whatever had happened to make now "after."

"I've grown rather fond of the boy over the past dozen years, even if he turned not to be quite what we expected," Aziraphale noted. "Two triple chocolate cones, please," he added, speaking to the bored teenager behind the counter.

"Fond of him, eh? Funny, from his birthday party last year, I thought you loathed the little snot. Put that away; I'll pay, as you're hopeless with American money."

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. "That was when I thought he was, you know, under _your_ influence."

Warlocks' happiness at seeing the pair again had all but evaporated. What was _that_ supposed to mean?

Crowley grinned predatorily. "Everyone's under my influence these days, angel. His being human doesn't change that."

"Be that as it may, I feel we have an obligation to the boy we must uphold."

"And I take it this obligation takes the form of cash gifts?"

"Don't be foolish. Cash is so vulgar, my dear. No, a nice savings bond teaches the value of thrift."

Crowley rolled his eyes. So did Warlock.

"But as a matter of fact, I was thinking of something different, this year. Something special, to make up for being uprooted to the States, and all that."

"I don't' see anything wrong with America."

Aziraphale gave Crowley a pointed look. "_You_ wouldn't."

"Anyway. What sort of 'special' are we talking?"

"I thought, er, perhaps we could get him a dog? Since he never did get one last year."

Crowley lowered his sunglasses and gave Aziraphale a look. "Not a good idea. Do you know what happened to the gerbil?"

Hey now. That wasn't his fault! It was a freak accident.

"What happened to the- oh. _Oh._ Well, no dog, then."

"We could get him a car."

"Crowley, he's _twelve_."

"Is that a no?"

"Yes. Any other ideas? Serious ones?"

"We could just ask him. He's right over there, indulging in a little gluttony."

"Oh. So he is. Well, it is quite good ice cream."

And before Warlock could do much more than blink at this development, the two men had approached and were sitting down at his table.

"Hey, kid."

"Hullo, Warlock."

"Um, hi."

"So," Aziraphale asked after a small pause, "How has your year been?"

"Awful," Warlock answered honestly.

"See?" Aziraphale turned to Crowley. "Why anyone would want to live in America, I'm sure I don't know."

"It's- it's not that. I mean, it's not _just_ that-" And without even thinking about it, Warlock soon found himself telling Aziraphale all about the problems he was having in school and at home, while Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses and concentrated on licking his ice cream cone in increasingly odd and obscene ways.

When he'd finished his litany of complaints, as Aziraphale patted his back awkwardly, Crowley suddenly asked, "So, what do you want us to do about it?"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale hissed. "That's hardly a fair question."

"So what? It's hardly a fair world, as you may have noticed. Listen, kid," he turned to Warlock intently, "you've had a bit of a complicated life, so far, and well, perhaps my associate here and I had a bit to do with that, but I was just doing my job, you see-"

"What do you mean, your job?" Warlock asked.

"You have to understand," Aziraphale interjected, "we were under the impression you were, well," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "the Antichrist."

Warlock stared at the pair, mouth gaping. "You're joking, right?"

"I'm afraid not," Aziraphale replied in a kindly tone. "You see, Crowley here is a demon, and he was charged with delivering the Antichrist to earth and sort of, well, lost track of him."

"_I_ didn't lose him, angel. The humans did that."

"Yes, yes, of course."

"What he just called you," Warlock tentatively asked, "are you? An angel, I mean?"

"Yes."

"So why didn't you just, I dunno, kill me or something?"

"Wouldn't have worked," Crowley put in. "That is, if you had actually been who we thought you were. So we came up with a plan."

"Wait, you both came up with this plan? Shouldn't you two, you know, hate each other or something?"

The angel and demon exchanged amused glances. "Yes, I suppose we should," Aziraphale murmured.

"But anyway," Crowley continued a bit too loudly, "the plan – which would've worked, by the way – was to subject you to both infernal _and_ celestial influences in your formative years, so that you'd turn out to be, well, not a very _good_ Antichrist."

"Nanny and Mr. Francis," Warlock stated, suddenly understanding. "And my tutors."

"Exactly," Aziraphale confirmed. "And so, if you got the impression from all of the fuss that you were, well, special-"

"-that's because we thought you were, at the time. And so, you know, I guess all that interference might've been a bit confusing for you, and, well, like I said, we were just trying to do our jobs, broadly speaking-"

"I think what Crowley is trying to say," Aziraphale interrupted, "is that we're sorry for, um, any inconvenience we may have caused you, over the years."

Warlock just nodded, stunned. "Is that it?" he asked. "I mean, is that my present?"

"The truth? And an apology? Actually, I think it is," Aziraphale stated. "It's about the best thing we could do for you, now that I think of it."

"That, and one other thing, angel," Crowley added. "No more messin' him about."

"No more messin' anyone about," Aziraphale replied. "So, Warlock, um, happy birthday, and, well, good luck with the rest of your life."

"You'll probably need it," Crowley warned, and Aziraphale gave him a withering look.

Warlock watched the two men – beings – whatever - leave the shop. They had to be kidding, right? There was no such thing as the Antichrist, or angels or demons – it was just in movies that stuff like that happened.

He sighed heavily before reaching for his spoon and another mouthful of - now quite melty – sundae. Maybe being special wasn't all that important, after all.

 

1. They were hideous, and Harriet immediately put them at the bottom of a drawer and forgot about them. (back)  
2. The kind that never, ever, ever biodegrade. (back)  
3. Destined to fall into the ocean and be swallowed by an endangered sea turtle, killing it. (back)  
4. Though all extremely dull, so Harriet never bothered. (back)  
5. Of course, if Warlock's mother had known that the little black car was capable of crashing into her toes at such speeds, she mightn't have been so grateful to him. (back)  
6. Though the other employees seemed oddly baffled by the sudden change from repetitive pre-recorded announcements advertising the bank's high-fee credit cards. (back)  



End file.
